A Penny for Your Thoughts
by wordaddiction
Summary: A one shot in which Montparnasse is puzzled by his strange desire for a certain young poet, one who seems to have no such desires for him. Montparnasse/Jehan, with some slight references to non-consent, but nothing too graphic.


Montparnasse was not a patient man. Things happened when he wanted them to happen, and people did what he wanted them to do. It wasn't so much a standard as a way of life, one that he was quite used to and had no intention of giving up. It was because of this he could both ardently despise and lust after the young man in the flowered vest, who managed to spite him during their every encounter.

"_Hey there, gorgeous," Montparnasse said, leaning against the brick wall casually, his arms crossed and a smirk pulling his lips upward. "What're you doing out so late?" _

_The young man stopped and turned around, a basket of roses hanging on one arm and a journal clinging beneath his other. He raised an eyebrow at the stranger. "A lot more than you're doing, by the looks of it. Can I help you?" _

'_Parnasse furrowed his brow and pushed himself off the wall to take a step closer to the man. "Don't you know who I am, flower boy?" he asked dangerously._

"_Should I?" _

_The dandy tilted his head, slightly put off by the other's ignorance. Of course he should know who he is, being one of the most feared men in all of Paris. He paused, taking in his appearance. "Name's Montparnasse," he said, by way of explanation. _

_The man shrugged. "Sorry, I don't know who you are," _

"_You may be the only one. What's your name?" _

"_You know, I can think of nothing I'd like more than to disclose my name to a perfect stranger that I've met in an alley, but I really must be on my way. I'll see you around, Montparnasse," And he left without a second glance. _

Mont scowled as he remembered their first encounter. The gall of some men was incredible. He could have killed him right there, finished him off and not had to deal with him ever again. But he didn't. He just frowned and made his way back to Babet's, where he indulged in good wine and a bit of opium. And though he couldn't seem to get his mind off of the man that night, it was nothing compared to their next encounter.

"_Bonjour, flower boy. Fancy seeing you here," 'Parnasse greeted as he saddled up next to the man at a bar. He had been enjoying a drink by himself, something he often did, when he noticed the small brunette engaged in rich conversation with another. _

"_Oh. Hi," he said curtly. "'Parnasse, was it?" _

_He frowned. "Montparnasse, yeah. Who's your friend?" _

_The man beside the first was tall and raven haired, sleek of face and hunched over a bottle of absinthe. "If I won't tell you my name, I'm not going to tell you my friend's," the smaller one laughed. _

"_That's alright, I've nothing to lose. I'm Grantaire," the friend stuck out his hand. Mont shook it hesitantly. _

"_Nothing to lose, eh?" _

_Grantaire shrugged. "Not really," He turned to his friend. "I must ask, though. Why is it Paris's most famous murderer knows who you are?" _

_The man nearly spit out his drink. He looked frantically from one to the other, eyeing the slightly bemused expression on Montparnasse's face. "Murderer?" he asked tightly. "You're a murderer?" _

'_Parnasse tilted his head, neither affirming or denying the claim. "And you're a poet," he said. _

"_Wha—Have you been stalking me?" _

'_Parnasse laughed. "I have much better things to do with my time than follow an ignorant little wisp and find out his hobbies," He nodded towards the journal lying on the bar counter. The word "Poetry" was engraved in the leather. "I just assumed," _

_The poet grabbed his journal and clung to it protectively, as if Mont had made an attempt at stealing it. "Well I just assumed that you were a decent human being, and clearly I was wrong. I think you should leave, monsieur," _

_Montparnasse smiled and stepped closer to the man, bending so that his face was inches away from the other's. "Aren't you afraid I'll kill you, flower boy?" he asked with a wicked grin._

"_I'll take my chances," _

Montparnasse had once again walked away with a scowl and his fists clenched. He wasn't used to rejection, if only because people were too afraid of the alternative, and the fact that this man knew of the consequences and was still so unconcerned bothered him to no end. The next time, he sought out the poet intentionally.

"_Oi, you," he called, catching the man on a back street just as night was falling. The brunette turned around, his shoulders sagging when he saw who it was. _

"_You again? Really, Montparnasse, you'd think Paris would be big enough that we wouldn't have to keep running into each other," _

"_Kiss me," he said bluntly, stepping so that he was only a foot away from the other. The shorter man looked taken aback. He inched backward, clutching his journal to him tightly. _

"_What?" _

"_You think you can just walk away from me, like I'm some sort of _thing_ you can cast aside. Well I'm not. I'm a man, and a very dangerous one at that. Don't cross me, flower boy," He grabbed the poet by the waist and tugged him forward, their torsos pressed against each other. The slighter man struggled and pushed off of him. _

"_I'm not scared of you," he growled. _

"_I could kill you,"_

"_But you won't," _

_Montparnasse raised an eyebrow at the confidence in his voice. "What makes you so sure?" _

_The brunette paused, staring him in the eye for a few moments before speaking again. "You don't know my name," _

_Montparnasse let out a sickening laugh, his head thrown back and stomach heaving. "I don't need to know your name to kill you, mate. I could do it right here. Bare hands," He wiggled his fingers as if to prove his credibility. _

_The other shook his head. "But you'll be too curious. And you'll never find out," _

_Montparnasse smirked. "It was a good try, but not enough. Your name doesn't intrigue me that much, flower boy. Not half as much as those lips of yours do," _

_The poet furrowed his brow and took a large step backwards, ending up with his back pressed against the wall. He curled his hands around the brick, gripping tightly. He glanced around for any sign of company, but found that the two were completely alone. _

"_You'd get satisfaction out of kissing a man who does not want to kiss you?" he asked in a quiet voice as 'Parnasse approached him slowly. _

"_A great deal. A kiss is a kiss, mon ami. But I intend to take…so much more," _

_The poet swallowed, beginning to feel a tingling in his fingertips and a sinking sensation in his stomach. "Wouldn't you rather someone who…wanted you?" _

'_Parnasse pressed himself against the other. "You want me," _

"_I can assure you, I don't," _

_Angered, the dandy gripped him by the arms. "What's wrong with you?" he growled, shaking him violently. "Why can't you just be like everyone else and do it?" _

_The poet squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a breath as he was shaken, accidentally dropping his book. He gasped and pushed the other off with surprising force, then bent to pick it up. He dusted it off with vigor. Montparnasse rolled his eyes and walked to the other side of the alley, stretching his arms before him. _

"_I don't understand you," he said, turning back to face the other. _

"_Not many do," he shrugged, holding his journal close. That damn journal._

_Montparnasse stood, unsure of what came next. He wanted so badly to just take what he wanted of the man and be done with it, surge forward and grasp his head with his hands and kiss him, push him against the wall and feel his lips on his. But for some reason, he wanted the poet to kiss _him_ even more. For the man to step forward and tentatively curl his arms around his neck, pull him in for a delicate exchange, then keep him there in a warm embrace. Instead, he just stared at him with hard, loathing eyes. _

"_I'm going to go," the poet said coolly. Mont froze. He didn't know what to do. All that, and he was just going to let him leave? Walk away without a scratch, and without ever having had to submit to his will? But the alternative, keeping him here, fighting him to stay, seemed so…unappealing. He wanted the poet to stay of his own accord. But that clearly wasn't an option. _

"_I wish you wouldn't," he said, not making any more advances. The words sounded odd coming from his mouth. It was one of the only requests he had ever made, replaced more often by demands. _

_The other stood and watched him for a moment. "I don't trust you," he admitted. _

_Montparnasse tried to argue, but realized that there really wasn't anything he could say. His entire career was built on people not trusting him, and he hadn't exactly shown the poet that he was worthy of any other feeling. He sighed and nodded. _

"_As you shouldn't," _

_The lack of danger in his voice must have made the smaller man pause. He searched 'Parnasse's eyes, but said nothing else as he turned and headed the way he had been before, leaving the dandy alone with his thoughts. _

Montparnasse left him alone after that. For a few weeks, he kept to his errands. The Patron-Minette took up most of his time, and when he wasn't committing acts of violence or greed, he occupied the bars and made a habit of taking home attractive strangers to ebb his growing desire. Night after night, he found himself in bed with another young man of small stature and sleek features, and once or twice even a woman. He hadn't sought out similar looking people intentionally, hadn't even realized it until a few weeks in. It was after he woke up with a small writer with dark hair and a strikingly similar voice to that of the poet's that he knew he had to figure out what he should do.

He was sitting at a bar that night, bottle in hand and grim look about his face, when he decided it was time to forget. He would let the young man go without a scratch, not finding it within himself to harm him. But he wouldn't seek him out anymore, would stay away from his look-alikes. He wouldn't even think about him, if that was what it took. Montparnasse was not one to get hung up on people. He simply didn't care that much. And what was the poet, anyway, but another body to rub against?

"'Parnasse," the familiar voice came from behind him. The man put his bottle down, half thinking he had imagined it, but turned anyway to find none other than the poet himself. He swallowed.

"Flower boy," he greeted, hoping for all the world his voice did not give away how much he had been affected as of late.

The young man took a seat beside the other, placing his ever-present journal to rest on the counter. He sat staring at it for a while before ordering a drink and turning to Mont, his dark eyes thoughtful. "How are you?"

"Chipper as always, mon ami. And yourself?" he asked, not sure how to act in front of him anymore.

"I've been better,"

Montparnasse quietly told the bartender to put the other's drink on his tab, earning him a grateful smile. "What's wrong?"

The poet took a slow sip of his drink, seemingly contemplative. When he finally answered, his voice was soft and unobtrusive. "I can't write anymore,"

"What?"

"My poetry…it's all become so dry. I don't know what to do if I can't write," he admitted.

Montparnasse glanced down at his journal. "May I…may I read some?"

"No!" The young man snatched his book from the counter and held it close, just as he had done so many times in their past encounters. His cheeks turned an astonishingly adorable shade of pink as his grip relaxed slowly, his shoulders sagging and the book falling to his lap. "I mean…no, it's…it's private,"

Montparnasse was surprised by the sudden movement, but made no effort to deny him his wish other than a slight raise of his eyebrow. He took a swig of whiskey and shrugged. "Your call, mate,"

The poet nodded and placed the book back on the counter. "I…I think it's your fault," he said softly.

Mont turned to face him directly. "_My_ fault? Oi, there's a whole lot of things I have control over, but your ability to write is not one of them,"

"I don't mean you did it on purpose. But ever since that night in the alley, all of my poetry has just been…terrible,"

'Parnasse chewed over the thought in his head, not wanting to admit that he got a bit of satisfaction out of having some sort of effect on the poet. He nodded. "Say it was me, then. What do you propose I do about it?"

"I don't know," the other sighed. He took another drink and cupped his hands around the glass. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this,"

The dandy turned back to face the bar, giving a slight shrug. "Maybe you thought I could give you your muse back," he offered.

"Well, it didn't really work, did it?"

Montparnasse took a deep breath. A part of him was just happy the other was still there, talking to him. Another part knew that it was sick luck to be engaged in conversation with the very person he had just promised himself to forget.

"I suppose not,"

"You were going to use me," the small man said suddenly, the change of topic coming without warning. Montparnasse glanced at him and felt the color drain from his cheeks.

"I didn't,"

"But you were going to,"

"Yes," he admitted. "I was going to," He watched as the man stared at his own drink, thought evident in his eyes.

"Why didn't you?" he asked finally.

The dandy's brow shot up. "Is that a request?"

"No! God, no. Just…you were so adamant about it. And then something changed, and you weren't. What happened?"

Montparnasse sighed. "I don't know what you're looking to hear,"

"Well I would prefer the truth,"

"There isn't much of one," Montparnasse chewed on the inside of his lip. "I guess I just realized that you weren't worth the effort," he lied.

The poet watched him carefully. "Then why did you ask me to stay?"

"Look, I don't know what you're trying to get out of this, but I clearly don't have what you're looking for. I'm sorry about your writing, _poéte_. Maybe you should go,"

The younger man scowled and stayed firmly planted in his seat. He finished off the last of his drink and sat tightly, eyes fixed on the dandy, who was beginning to wonder how he got mixed up in this in the first place. He did not allow people to get so easily under his skin, and yet here he was, answering the man's questions and, until just now, trying to get him to stay. It was outrageous, and he wouldn't stand for it.

"Fine. If you won't leave, then I'll reciprocate a question," he said coldly. "I nearly forced you into kissing me, and perhaps a lot more that you didn't want to do, and yet you're still here. Talking to me. And I, for the record, made no further advancements on you in any way,"

The poet gave him a vague smile. "I still don't trust you,"

"That is rather the opposite of answering my question,"

"But I'm intrigued by you," he finished. Montparnasse didn't know what to say to that. Instead of responding, he stared intently at his own hands, which curled around his empty glass with a tightness he had not realized they harbored until that moment. He loosened his grip.

"I'm flattered, I suppose," he murmured, not removing his eyes from the cup. The other smiled.

"Take it as you wish," he replied. He began to stand, brushing himself off as he stole the journal from the counter again and held it to his chest. "I think I'll be off. Thank you for the drink, Montparnasse,"

The dandy looked up, then, watching the other with mixed feelings. He was sad to see him go, but he knew that if he stayed, the conversation would lead to more questions he did not know how to answer and more topics he did not know how to work around. The poet offered him a small smile and a hand to shake, the first contact he had ever volunteered himself for.

"See you around, flower boy," Mont said, shaking his hand firmly. The younger man stood still a moment, eyes on the other and hand still clenched in his. He tilted his head to the side before slipping his hand out and stepping back.

He turned to leave, wrapping his scarf securely around his neck. Just as he was about to exit the pub, with 'Parnasse's eyes still stuck to the back of him, he glanced over his shoulder.

"Hey, Mont?" he called. The older man froze, embarrassed to be caught staring. The poet flashed him a wide grin. "The name's Prouvaire. Jean Prouvaire,"

And then he was gone.


End file.
